Story up for adoption!
by rookanga
Summary: Looking for an idea? Look no further! Just click on the title and get the beginning of a story anyone can continue. More information inside.


**Hi! So I finally admitted to myself that this story was never going to get written, so I'm putting the small amount I had up here for adoption. If you want the story, just inform me. I'm allowing anyone who wants to continue this, as long as I get credit for the first nine hundred three words.**

Mike Ross tapped the plastic on the table in front of him. Harvey was on the other side of the plexiglass, shaking the phone at Mike and looking confused.

Confused. As if. Harvey knew what he'd done to Mike. Who did he think he was, coming here? Mike knew better than to pick up. He knew better than to listen to the great Harvey Specter gloat.

Harvey shook his head, rolled his eyes. He looked exasperated. The guard at the corner of the room said, "Hey, Kitten, pick up the phone already." Mike sighed and picked up.

"Finally," said Harvey.

"What do you want?"

"I need your help."

Mike's lips parted in surprise. Typical Harvey. Mike had trusted him, and Harvey had put him in jail. It was the ultimate betrayal. And here he was, asking Mike for help.

Harvey continued as if he didn't know how out of line he was. "There's this case. We're trying to get a guy put away. And he's here. We need an insider."

"What's his name?" asked Mike.

"Robert Varley. He goes by Pillar. I don't know why."

Mike knew why. Pillar was actually a pillar. He was six feet eleven inches of packed muscle. Nothing could get through him, unless you knew his weak spot: while searching for him, the police had shot him in the shoulder. He had never had full control of his left arm and hand. And Pillar had people. Lots of them. People out of jail that did his bidding, and Pillar was certainly in contact with them, though Mike didn't know what they were up to.

Time to find out how much Harvey needed him. "I'm not going to help you," Mike said.

"Mike," said Harvey.

"No." Mike narrowed his eyes at Harvey. The great Harvey Specter knew what the shamed Mike Ross wanted. Now all Mike had to do was see if he was desperate enough to do it.

A guard led Mike back to the common area. His cellmate Fearghas, a round but strong man with an Irish name and a Hispanic ancestry, came up to him.

"Who came to see Kitten?" Fearghas asked. Fearghas thought it made him seem tougher to refer to everyone in the third person. Mike wanted to tell him it only made everything more confusing, but he'd actually been pretty afraid of Fearghas when he first arrived, so he supposed he shouldn't really be talking.

"No one," Mike replied. "Just someone I used to work with."

"When Kitten was a fake lawyer like in _Community?_"

Mike sighed. "Yes, Fearghas." Thanks to Fearghas, Mike had been subjected to hours and hours of television, because Fearghas would watch anything, always. The better episodes Mike could replay in his head when he was bored. The bad ones he had to remember forever.

His memories weren't like TV. Even the good ones ended in sadness. He remembered his father pushing him on the swing. He remembered his mother, the way she used to dance with him. They were both dead. His grandmother had given him band-aids, food, love after they were gone; she was dead too. And then there were his days at Pearson Hardman, or whatever it was called these days, where he was stressed out of his mind, but doing what he'd always wanted to do. And then he'd turned around and found that the people who he thought were friends, weren't really friends. Or at least not his.

Criminals, in some ways, were more dependable than lawyers. You couldn't really trust them, but if you earned their loyalty, you never lost it. They would kill for you, literally.

The next day, Mike was called to a private meeting. He was confused, because he only ever had private meetings with Rachel, who was his lawyer now, but he went placidly with the guards. Mike couldn't fight, and besides, he was curious.

Waiting for him was a man in a suit.

Mike disliked him onsight; he'd had enough of suits to last the entire time SNL had been airing, and would air.

They said they were called Detectives Berring and Saunders, and of course Mike immediately thought of Detectives Benson and Stabler, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

Apparently Harvey had just been advance notice.

They wanted information on Pillar, they said.

"Who says I'll give it to you? Hell, after this, I could go and tell my man Pillar that you wanted info. I could be a double agent."

Detective Berring snorted.

"You got put in here because you were pretending to be a lawyer. Everyone calls you Kitten because you're little and cute. We can give you freedom. You're not going to go against the law. And we. Are. The law."

Mike felt anger rising up inside of him. Those stupid detectives. They probably thought that the worst place on earth to be was here in Rochester County Penitentiary. But they were wrong. He wouldn't agree to help them. He would only agree to help Harvey-provided the lawyer did what Mike wanted.

Harvey paced in front of Jessica's desk as he recounted his tale of visiting Mike.

"He won't help," Harvey said, visibly upset.

"Of course he won't," Jessica replied. "Not when you walk in there looking like a beautiful, rich man. He wants you to beg. He wants you to grovel at his feet as if your world depends on it."


End file.
